


A Permanent Kind Of Post

by Kerkerian



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Being Lost, Caring Jack, Fever, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Snow, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26065951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian/pseuds/Kerkerian
Summary: A mission gone temporarily awry leaves Jack and Mac stranded in a rather unfavourable situation. It could be so much worse though, for example if they weren't with each other...
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 92





	A Permanent Kind Of Post

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NatalieRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatalieRyan/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own MacGyver.
> 
> Happy Birthday to the lovely NatalieRyan! Many happy returns! 💓

Mac can barely stand, much less walk. Even with Jack's strong arm around him, his knees keep buckling, and he does not seem aware of what is going on around him. The only thing that registers is coldness. He cannot keep his head up either, which is why it is lolling heavily against Jack's shoulder. Mac tries, he really does, but it is cold and he is weaving in and out of consciousness, and whenever he opens his eyes, the world starts undulating, threatening to take him down.

How Jack is keeping his balance is beyond Mac. Dimly, he is aware of a voice, Jack's voice that is reverberating through him, not so much filling his auditory canal but directly through the bone. Osteotympanic conduction, Mac muses in the back of his mind, would also explain why everything seems muffled. Distant.

Then again, there is that ominous darkness which is encroaching around the edges, even when his eyes are open. Maybe that is another reason why he cannot keep up with what is happening around him or what Jack is saying. It does not matter. His voice is there, in Mac's head, and he can smell Jack's shirt and feels his warmth, and that is enough. Jack will make sure they are going to be alright.

The next time he closes his eyes, the darkness is there to stay.

“Mac!” Jack tries to keep Mac awake, but he can see that it is futile. The kid's gaze does not focus, and he is a dead weight in Jack's grip even before he loses consciousness; he is not even shivering anymore.

Swearing under his breath, Jack looks around, squinting against the snowflakes landing in his eyes; one tiny, wet prick after the other, not painful but extremely irritating. It is also getting dark even though it is only what- half past three? They missed their exfil due to the unscheduled rescue after Mac had been captured, their car got stuck when it slid off the road, and now they are in the middle of nowhere in at least two and a half feet of snow, with no phone reception whatsoever and no other means to communicate because their comms gave out too, and the wind is picking up somewhat fiercely. So yeah, this is bad.

Jack managed to shake off their pursuers long ago and he hopes that the bad weather conditions will stop them from coming after them further, but he still needs to find shelter. Mac is not doing too well, having been drugged with who knows what, and he was feeling under the weather even before they arrived in Sweden, though he successfully hid it all the way to Malta and then through Finland, where their initial assignment had taken them. And now they have ended up somewhere in the province of Härjedalen, which Jack can't even pronounce, and are pretty much lost.

Jack thought he had seen a sign shortly before a large moose walked onto the road rather unexpectedly. Jack stepped on the brake, which, due to the wintry conditions, had the car swerve immediately and skid off the road. At least they did not hit the animal, but the car came to an abrupt halt in a large snow drift a little bit further down; a bit of shovelling revealed a rock underneath, which explained why the motor would not start again. And Mac was in no condition to help; he had not even registered the crash, from the looks of it. Fortunately, Jack had strapped him in, and as soon as the car veered off the track, he had prevented Mac from being hurtled sideways with one outstretched arm across his chest.

Once it had become clear that the car was a write-off and he had no means of calling for help, Jack had pulled Mac out of the wreck and started walking, keeping to the road in the hope that it might lead through some kind of settlement soon; the moose had disappeared in the meantime. It did not look as if anyone had driven by in the past few hours: while the snow was not as high on the road as in the underbrush, the pre-existing tyre tracks were filling up rather quickly.

“Mac,” Jack now tries again. “You hear me? Nah, I thought so. Listen, buddy, I'mma have to carry you. I can't pull you along like this, I keep stumbling.” They are not dressed for this at all: their mission had started on the island of Malta, where it had been a toasty 60 degrees (considering it was November). Nobody had expected to be needing winter clothes, on the contrary. In northern Scandinavia however, as it turned out, the winter had already set in weeks ago. Which is why Mac is only wearing his leather jacket and Jack a denim one.

Well, at least Jack does not feel the cold as badly because of the exertion. That is no real consolation, of course, because he knows how hypothermia works. And Mac, whom Jack is now having in a fireman's carry, is too thin to have any natural isolation; furthermore, his skin is cold and clammy. They need to find help, and soon.

Reinforcing his grip on his partner, Jack squints once more: “Where's a Tauntaun when you need one?”

Jack has no idea for how long he has been trudging through the snow when another sign comes up, and it is not what he hoped for: the next town is still 25 kilometers away. Too far in these conditions. For a moment, Jack feels like yelling at someone, but he is not ready to give up. Not when he has got Mac to think of. Also, walking is getting increasingly difficult because of the snow and the wind and the fact that his feet are feeling like clumps of ice. Admittedly, the rest of him is not so far behind by now.

It has gotten entirely dark in the meantime; ironically, if it were not for the snow, Jack would be able to see even less.

At one point, there is a turnoff which leads onto a side road, and Jack follows that; his instincts tell him that it is the right thing to do, and about ten minutes later, he discovers that he has been right: there is a house. Well, a cottage, but that does not matter: it has got a roof, and that matters. There are no lights and no visible vehicles; the snow is piling up around it, so nobody seems home. Encouraged, Jack makes its way over to the front door, clumsily putting Mac down on a bench under the wooden canopy so he can pick the lock. He does not want to kick the door in, in case it won't close properly afterwards: they need warmth. It is all he can think of. Also, he cannot be sure that nobody is looking for them, bad weather or not. So he rubs his frozen fingers and fumbles with Mac's knife and his own (a birthday present from his boy, and even though he does not think he can put it to equally good use, he is immensely proud of it because of what Mac meant to say by giving it to him) until the lock opens.

Relieved, Jack pushes the door open and heaves Mac up again, then closes the door behind them and sags for a moment.

The air inside is a little stale, telling Jack that nobody has been here for some time, and the electricity does not work, probably because of the storm, but even though the house is unheated, the difference is palpable. Jack leaves Mac leaning against the door for the time being and looks around in the light of his SAK: the cottage is cosy, there is a kitchen with a wood stove, a living room, a bathroom, a small room with two bunkbeds and a master bedroom. There are no electric heaters, but there is another stove in the living room, and a pile of wood in a basket next to it. This is probably a summer house, but it will suffice.

Jack lifts Mac up one last time and carries him to the bedroom, where he eases him onto the bed and then sinks down next to him. For some time, he cannot move at all and just sits there shivering while the adrenaline is abating, but then he gets up again despite feeling weak as a kitten: he is wet and cold and Mac is even wetter and colder, and he is completely out of it. His pulse is a fluttering presence against Jack's fingertips, but he does not look good in the light of the SAK.

So Jack pushes his own needs aside, which is what he is always doing when it comes to Mac, and gets to work. Half an hour later, there are fires going in both stoves, and already, delicious warmth is spreading through the cottage. Jack has peeled Mac out of his sodden clothes and rubbed his skin until it felt less icy, all the while talking to his friend, who groaned a few times but did not come to. His pupils are still enlarged, courtesy of the drugs; to be on the safe side, Jack put him in the recovery position before wrapping him up as warmly as he could; luckily for them, he found plenty of towels, some sheets, several woolen blankets and a sleeping bag in addition to the comforters from the master bed and the bunkbeds.

He wraps a towel around Mac's head too, because he has learned, during their latest mishap in the Arctic, that people lose an astounding amount of body heat via their heads. Their phones are dead by now, so he leaves them on the kitchen table, intending to get back to them later.

The running water does not work either; probably turned off during the winter due to the risk of bursting pipes in the frost. So Jack ventures outside again, using several cooking pots and two buckets to collect snow; he puts them on and in front of the stove in the kitchen so the snow can melt, then he takes off his own sodden clothes as well.

Wrapped in a woolen blanket, he puts his and Mac's things over the backs of a few chairs in front of the stove in the living room, then he looks for candles. He soon finds a few lanterns and glasses both for candles and tealights. After closing all the curtains, he puts a few lights in the bedroom, then he goes to look after the snow. It takes longer for it to melt as he thought. While he waits, he snoops around the small kitchen pantry and is relieved to find food: crispbread and some cans, some preserves, oat flakes, assorted baking ingredients like caster sugar, a packet of cereal, coffee and black tea, sugar, honey, spices, flour and even biscuits.

In the bathroom, he finds more unexpected treasure: a first aid kit, some ibuprofen and a hot water bottle. Once the snow in the smallest pot has melted and the water has boiled, Jack pours it into the thing, then he uses the rest to make two mugs of tea, putting a lot of honey in it.

With a laden tray, he returns to the bedroom. Mac has not moved, but when Jack, after putting the tray on a wooden stool, sits down on the mattress, he blinks, giving another soft groan that goes straight into Jack's heart. “Hey, bud,” he says softly. “You with me?”

Mac blinks again, then he tries to speak but ends up coughing. Jack helps him to sit up and supports him until the bout is over; his own blanket slips off his shoulders at that, but he does not mind. In the light of his SAK earlier, Mac's lips looked slightly blue, but now some colour has returned to him, though he still looks pallid on the whole. He is shivering a little, which Jack still takes a good sign, because his body is reacting to what's happening instead of being so terribly still.

“Why...'re you naked?” Mac asks.

Jack could have laughed with relief: this is more coherence than he dared to expect, and Mac seems entirely lucid.

“We spent the last few hours in the snow, in case you don't remember,” he says. “Found a cottage, but no clothes. So... until my own stuff is dry, this is all the rage.” He grins: “Same goes for you, by the way.”

Mac looks down at himself as if only noticing it now, then he indicates a nod. “We stuck here?”

“For now. Car's totalled, snow's piling up outside, we lost all communication, so... “ Jack shrugs. Mac can see how exhausted he is, and judging by the sounds of the wind outside, getting here was no piece of cake.

“How're you feeling?” Jack now asks. Mac's eyes are glazed over, and he sounded congested just now and a little hoarse.

“Still cold,” Mac replies. A faint memory makes itself known. “You carry me here?”

“Yeah, I did. The moose _vamoosed_ before I could commandeer it as a means of transportation.” He grins at his own pun.

“What moose?”

“The one that made me drive the car against a rock. Well, at first I thought it was only a large snow drift, but it turned out that the rock was hidden inside of it. That was the end of our car.”

“Oh.” Mac looks sheepish. “I guess I was pretty out of it.”

“Yeah. And now stop trying to sidetrack me. How're you feeling, apart from being cold?”

Mac regards him for a moment, visibly pondering his answer, before he gives a resigned sigh: “Lousy.”

“You know what they give you?”

“No.”

“And you've got a cold brewing.”

Mac avoids his gaze, which is all his partner needs to know.

“Okay,” Jack reaches for a spare pillow. “Here, lean back, I've got some tea and some grub, and...” He holds out the hot water bottle. “This!”

Mac's eyes actually light up.

“Where do you want it?”

“Feet.”

“Okay.” Jack lifts the blanket and tucks it under Mac's feet, which admittedly still feel icy. Mac hisses a little, but then he sighs, all remaining momentary tension seeping away. Next, Jack gives him the mug to hold, which is helping to warm up his cold fingers. Slowly, he sips at the tea: it's too sweet, but his throat is uncomfortably sore, and the hot liquid and the honey dissolved in it feel really good, as does the heat at his feet. His head is throbbing now, which has gotten worse with sitting up, but that might be an after-effect of whatever they gave him in order to make him talk; his recollection is too foggy to determine it more specifically. He is just glad it was not worse: they did not use nitrogen, or actually waterboard him.

He eats a bit of the crispbread Jack keeps pushing at him, though he still feels vaguely queasy; once he has emptied the mug, he slides down the pillows again, glad to be lying down. His back is aching in a tell-tale way, and he knows he is feverish now; he can feel the oppressive heat like a vice around his temples, making his thoughts too sluggish. And he is tired, he wants to sleep. But Jack looks tired too, and though he appears uninjured, he has just schlepped Mac's unconscious body around for who knows how long.

“We should take turns keeping watch,” he mutters, even though his eyes are already closing again.

“Don't worry, hoss,” Jack gives him a crooked smile. “I've got it covered.”

The truth is that he is bone tired too, and he does not plan on leaving Mac's side anyway, not when he is visibly ill and still recovering from his latest ordeal. No broken bones this time, nor any other injuries apart from the tell-tale puncture wounds on his arm and a number of bruises, for which Jack is grateful; it is always hard enough when Mac gets captured. Seeing him helpless in the hands of whichever thugs they are dealing with is something Jack dreads more than anything else. It features in his nightmares sometimes, but those are the kind that he never tells Mac about.

He takes the tray back to the kitchen, puts the pots of snow/water on the table and makes sure the front door is locked. As a precaution, he puts a chair underneath it, which is all he can do for now. He is pretty sure they were not pursued further, and even if they were, the weather must have put a halt to that as well. He will have his gun at the ready nevertheless, because the kind of people they just escaped from are a force to be reckoned with and he does not have any idea if the data he tried to send to HQ went through before the comms went dead, but he really needs to lie down.

So he pads back to the bedroom and cautiously stretches out on the other side of the bed, pulling one of the extra comforters over the blanket around him, which is nice and warm. With one hand pushed against Mac's sleeping form, he closes his eyes.

The mattress shakes every time Mac coughs. It is very quiet otherwise, and Jack has got one ear out. Apart from the door, there are several windows through which someone could get in, so he is listening for breaking glass as he is drifting in and out of sleep. The moose is there again, regarding him curiously, and Jack, who is glad he did not hit it with the car, is about to say so when Mac's coughing just won't stop anymore. Confused, he blinks, half expecting a 1000 pound animal looking at him, standing in the snow. Instead, he is in a small, cozy room that is bathed in the soft twilight of the early morning.

It takes a blink or two to get his bearings. The mattress is shaking again and Mac is on his side, only his tousled hair and one shoulder visible, in the middle of a coughing fit. Jack gets up, wrapping the blanket around himself, and circles the bed.

With one hand on Mac's back for support, he talks him through it until the coughing abates, then he hands him the glass of water from the nightstand: “Slow sips,” he says calmly, though he feels anything but. Mac's skin is overly warm and clammy, and his eyes are glassy.

With a shaking hand, he gives the glass back to Jack: “Thanks,” he croaks, his voice hoarse. Shivering, he huddles in on himself, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Jack reaches out to feel his forehead: “Seems you're running quite a temperature,” he says softly. “How're you feeling?”

“Cold,” Mac mutters. “Achy. Sore. And I gotta pee.”

“Hang on,” Jack gets up again. “I'll be right back.”

The temperature has dropped considerably in the meantime, since the fires have gone out. Jack quickly gets the stove in the living room going again, then takes their now dry clothes into the bedroom: “Here, put on your underwear and your t-shirt, you'll be more comfortable. I've just had a look outside- seems we're snowed in and there still isn't any electricity, so you better stay in bed while you can.”

“I'll be fine.”

“In bed, yes.”

With a frustrated groan, Mac slowly sits up and struggles into his clothes while Jack gets dressed as well. If he is honest with himself, he knows Jack is right. He feels awful, and even getting to his feet is a task. Shakily, he takes one step and another before Jack catches his arm: “Steady,” he says, “we don't want you to take a header.” He can feel that Mac is shivering, so he takes one of the blanket and wraps it around the younger man. Who does not even protest, just huddles into the warmth gratefully as they make their way over to the bathroom.

“We don't have running water,” Jack says. “I've melted some snow which we can use to flush, bucket's next to the sink.”

Mac nods: “Summer cottage,” he murmurs, immediately grasping why there is no water. Which is good, in Jack's book, meaning that the drugs have worn off entirely by now.

While Mac is in the bathroom, Jack opens the front door to have a look around. Everything is utterly quiet, apart from the wind. The snow is piled up pretty high; they would not even make it to the small front gate without shovelling.

He checks their phones next: both of them are still dead. He was hoping that maybe the batteries were simply affected by the cold and might recover somewhat at room temperature, but it seems that he was wrong. He is going to have a more thorough look around later, see if he can find a charger, but first things first.

Mac is shaking visibly when he comes out of the bathroom, and he leans on Jack more heavily than before. He seems too slight in Jack's arms, too vulnerable; okay, Jack may be biased. He once said he loves the little guy like a brother, but the truth is, he rather considers himself to be Mac's dad substitute, it is so similar to how he feels about Riley, whom he has actually known since she was a kid. Whose dad he would have wanted to be.

Mac evokes the same kind of affection and protectiveness in him, which goes far beyond his job description. Yes, he is officially Mac's overwatch and bodyguard, but he also knows, without any room for doubt, that he would go much further if need be. For Mac, he would kill. He knows that it is illogical, that killing someone in cold blood means prison and therefore, would take him away from his boy. And yet. He can't help it, he loves Mac as though he were his own flesh and blood, and that means he is all in because love is illogical too.

And now he is feeling somewhat guilty, because Mac appears like a bird to him, soft and bony and delicate, and Jack realizes how he let himself be fooled lately. He should have known that Mac has not been eating properly recently, the reason very likely being his father. Like a bird, Mac is stronger than he looks, and he is muscular, but that is about it. No reserves for situations like these. Jack inwardly sighs: this thing between Mac and James won't be so easily resolved, but he will do his darnedest to put some meat on his partner's bones once they are back home.

When Mac is back in bed, Jack carefully tucks him in, making sure he is wrapped up warm: “I'm going to make some more tea and fill up that hot water bottle again, okay? And you gotta eat something, then you can take some ibuprofen.”

Mac nods meekly. Jack strokes over his hair once, the corners of his mouth turning up a little, before he gets up and leaves the room.

Still shivering, Mac burrows deeper into the covers; his head hurts too, but his back is aching the worst, making it difficult to find a comfortable position.

What an incredibly bad timing, he thinks groggily, to get sick during a mission. And then get stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the snow. To be fair, it could be worse. They found shelter and even supplies, and Jack is with him. It could be so much worse. With that thought in mind, Mac closes his eyes.

Jack immediately feels better once he has begun rummaging around in the small kitchen, because it is something he can control. He fires up the stove and puts some water to boil; he makes some coffee for himself and tea for Mac. He makes porridge with the oat flakes, water, some caster sugar and honey, then he arranges some crispbread and biscuits on a plate and opens a glass that says “Drottningsylt”- which smells and tastes like jam with different berries in it. It is obviously homemade and really good, so Jack spreads some of it on the crispbread. By the time he is done, the water is boiling.

Mac has dozed off in the meantime; Jack puts the tray on the nightstand and a gentle hand on Mac's cheek, feeling the heat of the fever radiating off his skin: “Hey, sleepy head, time for breakfast.”

Mac blinks owlishly and sits up as slowly as before.

“We're lucky,” he croaks, motioning towards the food, and Jack nods: “I'll make sure the Phoenix splashes out accordingly when they reimburse our hosts once we're outta here,” he says. “This jam's heavenly, by the way. Don't know what it is, exactly, but I kinda wanna marry it.”

The corners of Mac's mouth quirk up. He is grateful that Jack made porridge for him though, since it is easier to swallow than the crispbread, and the warmth is soothing his sore throat. He does not really have an appetite, but he desperately wants to take some painkillers, therefore, he finishes almost the entire bowl.

Once Mac has had some more tea, Jack hands him two pills and a glass of water.

He regards Jack groggily when he is lying down again a short while later: “I shouldn't be useless,” he says, his voice grating in his sore throat. “I should be trying to revive our phones...” Though to be fair, he doesn't have the faintest idea how to do that right now, he feels too muzzy from the fever. “They're not gonna be able to trace us like this...”

“Don't worry about it, buddy,” Jack says lightly. “I'll find something, okay? And until then, we're fine. If you ask me, you're probably better off in a proper bed than on a plane anyway.”

The very fact that Mac does not protest at that, just looks at Jack with a resigned expression, tells him that his charge really feels as miserable as he looks.

“Get some rest,” Jack says softly, tucking Mac in. “And stop feeling guilty, alright?”

Mac hums noncommittally; of course he cannot stop doing so, the little nerd is always feeling responsible one way or other, but Jack knows better than to argue. One, Mac's far too drowsy and needs rest, and secondly, it is futile anyway. All Jack can do is try and find a solution on his own, or at least scrabble together a few pieces which might come in handy later.

As soon as Mac is asleep again, Jack takes the tray back into the kitchen and puts some water to boil. Then he snoops through all the cabinets and shelves once more, which is much easier by daylight and being rested and wide awake. He does feel a little sore as well, courtesy of carrying Mac and whatnot, but he has had worse.

At one point, he also goes outside again, since he has discovered a woodshed in the back of the house and they need to restock to keep the stoves going. It is still snowing and utterly quiet, and there are no new tracks anywhere, so nobody has been here but them, which is a relief.

To Jack's pleasant surprise, he finds tools and a small, petrol powered generator in the shed; it looks ancient but well-maintained. Maybe Mac can do something with it once he is up to it. In one of the cabinets in the small vestibule, he found some cables and wires. Knowing his boy, he will be able to magic the stuff into something serviceable.

What he does not find is a phone charger though or anything else he could use as a radio, so that will have wait.

He fills up all the pots and two more buckets from the shed with snow, then returns inside.

Mac is completely out of it, and the fever does not seem to have lessened; his skin feels as hot and clammy as before, and he is sweating. Which of course is good, according to what Jack's ma always said: “Gotta sweat a fever out well and good”, but it also calls for some fresh air. The window squeaks a little when Jack opens it, at which Mac startles momentarily, but he doesn't really wake up despite opening his eyes. Jack quietly tells him that he should go back to sleep, everything is fine, and Mac soon drops off again with a barely audible sigh.

Cold winter air filters into the room, and Jack loves its clean scent; now that he is out of the snow, he can appreciate its merits.

Since he has got nothing else to do for the time being and there are no books he could read, Jack takes a writing pad he found, sits down at the kitchen table from where he has got a view of the road and begins to work on his report. Well. He also tries to draw a moose and fails epically. Next, he draws a horse, which goes much better. Then a cowboy. Grinning, he draws a giraffe after that, and it's holding a Swiss Army Knife between its teeth.

He also tinkers with the generator for a bit, though he does not really know what he is doing.

In between, he frequently goes to check on Mac, whom he can hear coughing now and then.

Around noon, he takes him some more water; on the stove, there is a pot of broth simmering which he made from one of the stock cubes and pasta he found.

He regrets having to wake Mac, but he needs some fluids, so Jack gently shakes his shoulder: Mac's shirt is damp, and so are the sheets.

Mac does not wake up easily; when he finally open his eyes, he seems rather muzzy, and Jack is worried about the persistent fever, which seems too high. Maybe even higher than before, but he has no way of knowing, since they do not have a thermometer.

“Can you sit up, buddy?” he asks, trying not to show his concern.

Mac does so, immediately beginning to shiver as soon as the cool air in the room touches his damp skin.

“I'll get you some fresh sheets,” Jack says. “And you need to get out of your clothes, I'm afraid, sweated right through them.”

Blearily, Mac nods: “Need to pee anyway.”

He gets to his feet with slow, unsteady motions. Jack takes his arm to support him because Mac is shaking visibly just from the exertion of standing up: “You up for a quick wash?”

“Yeah.”

“'kay. Now, since the shower is no use without running water and it'd take too long to heat up enough water on the stove to use instead, we'll quickly rub you down, okay?”

“Not a horse,” Mac mutters, eliciting an amused snort: “That's alright. I'm not a nurse either.”

“True,” Mac replies hoarsely. “Nurses usually are prettier.”

“Careful,” Jack grins, inwardly relieved that Mac has still got it together enough to make jokes, “Or I'll use snow instead of warm water.”

He leaves Mac to his own devices to quickly strip the bed and air the blankets, pushing the window open as wide as possible even though the wind has picked up considerably again, driving the snow in dense flurries. There is nothing Jack can do about the used sheets, but he is going to rinse Mac's stuff out and dry it in front of the stove. Until then, he will have to make do with a large towel. It is not ideal, but it is all they got. First though, he needs to freshen up.

With a bowl of warm water and two more towels, Jack returns to the bathroom; Mac has shed his damp clothes in the meantime.

Jack dissolves some soap in the water, then dips one end of the smaller towel in it and gently wipes it over Mac's shoulders, neck and back. Mac sighs with relief because it feels so good; the fever is uncomfortable, and he hates how his own skin seems to cling to his body all wrong. The momentary relief is heavenly though.

Jack hands him the towel so he can do the rest himself: “I'll go and put fresh sheets on the bed, okay?”

“Thanks,” Mac's voice is so hoarse it hurts just listening to it.

Jack is almost done when Mac appears, wrapped in the larger towel, and leans against the door frame, trying to make it look casual.

Jack waves him in: “C'mon, hoss, lie down before you keel over.”

Mac manages to glare at him but does as he says.

“Roman look suits you,” Jack says airily. “All you need is a pair of sandals and that tiara thingy-”

“'s called a laurel wreath,” Mac mutters as he leans back against the pillows with a barely audible sigh.

“Yeah, that.” Jack's still grinning: “Okay. I'mma bring you some broth and some kibble, okay?”

Mac nods, closing his eyes for a moment; he looks exhausted even though he slept all morning, and his skin is still pallid, apart from the fever flush. He is also shivering a little again, so Jack closes the window and pulls the covers up higher around his friend, half expecting another glare, but Mac only looks at him with a soft little smile, his expression grateful, and Jack understands. This is something Mac did not get enough in his life, and he always seems a little surprised when someone notices and subsequently attends to his less obvious needs of their own volition, like Bozer and Jack.

It hurts the latter that Mac would not even know how to ask for it, but Jack has seen it for himself before. Whenever Mac is doing his thing during their missions, he is not at all shy to demand for Jack to do whatever the situation requires, sometimes even bosses him around when Jack is not quick enough on the uptake or jokes around too much for Mac's liking. When it concerns him privately though, he seems to assume he has just got to tough it out whenever something is amiss; it is his default setting and one of the reasons why Jack is always keeping an eagle eye on his partner out of habit: Mac usually does a good job to hide his true feelings under his easy-going demeanour.

Blink and you'll miss it, Jack sometimes thinks, and that would be just unjustifiable in his own book. The kid has been neglected too much, after all, though Jack does not believe his grandpa is to blame; he gave Mac a home and cared for him well, according to Bozer (whom Jack grilled relentlessly until he knew all there was to know), but he was not an openly affectionate type, apparently, not one for hugs and cuddling.

“When Mac stayed at my house, my mom would tuck him in and kiss him goodnight just as she did with me,” Bozer said. “She is like that, you know? She just assumed it'd be okay, and it was.” He smiled. “You should've seen how his face lit up every time.”

Jack could imagine that vividly, and he is grateful for Bozer and his family. And now he sees it again, this expression on Mac's face, as if he cannot quite believe that he has got someone he belongs to, if not in blood but in all other significant ways and, most importantly, unconditionally. Someone who puts him first and does not consider it a task but rather a privilege.

It is not the first time, and it won't be the last either, since Mac will probably never be able to shake off that last bit of insecurity about his own person when it comes to his self-worth (fact is Jack feels ready to punch someone, more specifically, someone whose first name is James, whenever Mac does or says something that makes it evident how he learned not to expect too much from the people around him. Bozer and Harry remedied that somewhat, but it is still there, after all) and Jack, who wants Mac to feel loved and appreciated all the time, will always be helicopter-parenting him, no matter what and even if Mac complains about it from time to time.

Jack knows that he does not mean it, on the contrary, and it is situations like these which prove that Mac needs him. And vice versa, admittedly. Very rarely, Mac acknowledges this of his own volition, just as he did after their run-in with Harper Hayes on Goat Island.

“Who's your boy?” he asked Jack after saving him from getting killed by the woman, making it sound casual, but the latter is well-versed in Mac-speak and knows that it is not something his partner would say flippantly. Right then, it meant that Mac was relieved Jack was okay, that they had made it through alive once more, that he was not going to leave Jack's side again so soon after being forced to split up like that, even if it meant having to hear even more harebrained stories about the Bermuda triangle. But it also meant that he was not only proud of himself right then but knew how proud Jack was of him, and Jack just loved that. Still does.

Logical family is a marvellous thing, if you are lucky. Jack feels that they have both been very lucky in that regard. Great, and now he is tearing up again.

“You'll be okay, kiddo,” he says quietly, patting Mac's shoulder with a small smile before he leaves the room.

In the kitchen, he looks around for a ladle; he thinks he has seen one in one of the larger drawers. When he pulls it out with more force than intended, it almost slides out completely. Jack reaches for the ladle, then pauses: in the back of the drawer, there is a plastic box with all kinds of doodads in it; Jack did not notice it before, but now that he looks closer, he can see a cable. He pulls it out, and bingo, it is a charger cable.

“Of all places,” Jack mutters, closing the drawer.

He takes the cable into the bedroom and shows it to Mac: “Think we can revive one of our phones with the generator?” he asks, unable to quell his excitement.

“Worth a try,” Mac mutters.

“Okay. Soup first though.” Jack regards him: “How's the pain?”

“Which one?”

“Good point,” Jack mutter sympathetically. “Well, eat up, then you can take some more ibuprofen.”

Even though Mac's fingers are clumsier than usual because he is feeling so dazed, they still obey him. Jack brought in the generator and everything else he found and put it all on the bed. He feels a little guilty for making Mac function while he is so ill, but contrary to his earlier confident words, they won't get anywhere if Mac cannot make this work, because Jack does not have a clue as to how to do it. So he helps as best as he can, and after about twenty minutes or so, Jack's phone pings to life.

He whoops and Mac sags against the pillows, smiling feebly: he is visibly shaking by now, so Jack pushes the equipment aside and helps him to lie down properly again, pulling the covers up around him: “I'mma carry the whole contraption into the kitchen," he says, since the generator is producing quite some noise. "As soon as the thing's got enough juice to switch it on, I'll give it a try. You just rest up, okay?”

“'kay.”

“That's my boy.” Jack smiles at him fondly.

Of course, there is no reception. Jack grits his teeth: at least the phone is on now. Hopefully, Riley will still be able to track them. He looks at his watch, trying to estimate how long it'd probably take till exfil in the best and in the worst case scenario, and estimates a window of three to eight hours, given that the weather is still rather unfavorable and they cannot be reached.

He carries an armchair into the bedroom and makes himself comfortable. Mac has drifted off in the meantime, huddled into the blanket; his breathing is audibly congested, and he is moving fitfully every so often, his face tense every time.

When Jack gently checks his temperature with his wrist a while later, it worries him how high it still is. So he goes to get a towel and some cold water; maybe it will bring some relief.

Mac flinches when he feels the cold cloth on his skin, opening his eyes in alarm.

“It's okay, bud,” Jack says softly, “just cooling you down a little.” At that, Mac relaxes into the sensation, eyes closing again.

Jack spends the next four hours alternately putting the cold cloth on Mac's forehead or wiping it over his face, his temples and his neck. In between, he keeps glancing at his phone, which is half charged by now; still not even a single bar. He gets up and takes it around the house once, hoping to have more luck by one of the other windows, but nothing changes. Mac however seems to be getting worse; he does not react to Jack's voice anymore nor seems to register the cold, and whereas he was fidgety earlier, a few times even weakly tried to bat Jack's hands away, he now appears listless, his skin burning up worse than before, at least Jack thinks so.

He doesn't notice how he is clenching his jaw whenever he is not talking to his friend, but the situation is scaring him, and he does not know what else to do, since he is not at all versed in home remedies. So he keeps doing what he is doing and talks to Mac anyway, which is preferable to silence. It does not help with the increasing dread he is feeling though; what if this is getting worse to a point where it is going to do some serious damage? What if the cell phone signal is not traceable after all? Ironically, it would mean that once again, it would be up to Mac to save himself, and Jack does not think he can this time.

“You hang in there, okay?” Jack asks Mac at one point, though he does not get an answer. “Just hang in there, we'll get you through this.” There is a prickling behind Jack's eyes as he says it, because the outcome seems so totally out of his hands, and he hopes with all his might that he did not just lie. He can deal with all kinds of dire straits as long as he can use his skills in combat and his experience; he is well trained and has good instincts. Undeniably, he has managed to keep himself and Mac alive so far, if not always unharmed; protecting his boy has become the most important task in his life. This here though... this feels like he is failing Mac, and not for the lack of trying.

It has long gotten dark again and Jack has just lit some fresh candles when he hears something. Immediately alarmed, he gets to his feet and grabs his gun, quickly making his way to the front door.

He has not quite reached it when there is a knock: “7652 Longhorn? This is Firebird 1. We're going to take you to exfil.”

Jack could have wept.

It turns out that the Norwegian hospital of St. Olav's University in Trondheim, where the exfil chopper lands on the helipad, is a distinguished facility in itself (later, Jack googles it and finds out that it “cooperates closely with the Norwegian University of Science and Technology“, which is something Mac will like) and most of the staff speak excellent English. Which Jack is glad about not only because he has got some explaining to do, for example why Mac is only wrapped in a towel. Since he was so out of it when they left the cottage, there was no way to get him dressed.

The nurse Jack is speaking to at admission assidiously notes down everything Jack tells her; on their way in, the chopper pilot patched him through to Matty, who gave him the all-clear to mention Mac's brief captivity and exposure to drugs, if no details. “We'll treat this as a kidnapping of a person with a diplomatic background,” she said, “I'm going to call the hospital's managing director and give her a heads up.”

“Thanks, boss.”

Matty remained silent for a moment: “I'm just glad we found you,” she then replied more softly. “Keep me updated, okay?”

“Okay.”

With Mac's temperature being so alarmingly elevated, they could not risk flying all the way back to the States, and now Jack is relieved. He stayed by Mac's side during triage, but had to leave while his partner was being settled in a room. When the doctor came to talk to him afterwards, he confirmed that Mac's temperature had been dangerously high: “We have started the patient on intravenous antipyretics and some fluids; it was the right thing to have him treated,” he informed Jack.

“Furthermore, the tox screen has come back clean. While we have no way to determine at this point whether the substances he received expedited the intensity of the illness by putting additional strain on his organs and thus physically weakening him further, we can safely assume that the after-effects of the psychoactive drugs have fully subsided. As a precaution, noninvasive monitoring will continue nevertheless, of course.”

Jack nodded: “He seemed lucid enough after a good night's sleep, but he was quite muzzy altogether.”

“Was he in pain as well?”

“Yeah. Typical flu stuff, like headache, back and joints, throat... the works.”

The doctor acknowledged this by inclining his head: “We're going to manage that as well, once he's more responsive. For now, our main concern is the hyperpyrexia, which is bordering on the extreme at 41,9°C. Your son is young and otherwise healthy though, therefore I think we can be cautiously optimistic.”

Jack was not sure how much that was in Fahrenheit, but it did not matter. It was too high and something was being done about it was all that matters. Also, the doctor thought Mac was his son- he could not say if Matty told the Norwegians something like that or if the man just assumed right then, but it made Jack irrationally and immensely proud.

“Thank you, doc,” he said gratefully. “Can I see him now?”

“You're welcome,” the doctor replied. “Yes, of course. This way, please.”

Mac is alone in a room, and the only sounds are his breathing and the soft beeping of the machines in the background. Jack pulls up a chair and sits down close next to the bed, regarding his kid: nothing much has changed, Mac is still pallid, making the fever spots high on his cheeks standing out. But his face is less tense now, maybe the medication is taking effect. Jack hopes so.

Since he has nothing else to busy himself with, he wraps both his hands around Mac's and just holds on to him.

At one point, Jack's eyes must have closed, because he wakes up when there is a slight commotion, jerking upright somewhat painfully from a hunched over position, to find that a nurse is smiling at him sympathetically: “I'm sorry to wake you,” she says softly. “I was just checking the patient's temperature.”

Jack blinks the grit out of his eyes: “That's alright. What is it, is it going down?”

“Only very slowly, but yes, it appears so,” the nurse says. “We have 0.2 degrees less.”

The rush of relief-fuelled adrenaline Jack feels makes him weak in the knees.

“Thank God,” he mutters, laughing a little and feeling jittery; he bows his head and takes a few deep breaths. He is aware that this is only a tiny victory, or maybe not even a victory yet, but he needs to take this as a positive development.

The nurse has just left when a movement underneath his hand has Jack looking up at Mac, whose face is working; a moment later, he blinks, and Jack instantly is on his feet, leaning over the bed: “Mac, bud? You with me?”

Mac blinks again and opens his mouth to speak, but a cough cuts off whatever he was going to say. Jack reaches for the cup of water on the nightstand and offers Mac the straw; he drinks gratefully.

“Where're we?” he croaks afterwards.

“In a hospital in Norway,” Jack answers, happy to hear the kid's voice. “Riley traced my phone, so exfil took us here.”

Mac regards him somewhat incredulously for a moment, but then he closes his eyes ever so briefly in resigned comprehension: “'kay,” he mutters. “Fever.”

“Yup,” Jack still feels shaky. “Seemed safer to make a pit stop.”

“S'rry.”

“Don't be.” Jack reaches out to put his hand on Mac's shoulder. “We can go home once you're out of the woods, and they're helping you with that, so it's all good.” He smiles, stroking Mac's cheek with his thumb once, twice: “So you just get better, okay? No need to rush- in fact, you were right, the nurses I've seen so far were real pretty and I'm definitely enjoying the hospitality here, no pun intended, but... get better.”

“You go sleep too. Not sittin' up.” As feeble as Mac's voice is right now, the concern in his tone is unmistakable, and Jack is so touched he immediately feels his eyes filling up again (he has always been prone to tears, cannot help it). He knows that he looks as exhausted as he feels by now, has seen the dark, bruise-like shadows underneath his eyes when he went to the bathroom earlier, but Mac should not be worrying about him now.

That is Mac to a T though- kind and considerate no matter what; Jack could not be any prouder. Especially since he has also seen the tiny, barely noticeable flutter of trepidation in Mac's expression that tells Jack how Mac does not at all like the idea of Jack leaving him here on his own, but that he would not ever admit it. The little nerd is trying to tough it out again, for Jack's sake this time.

Jack's tender smile deepens as he regards his lovely, amazing, adorable boy now, his eyes brimming: “I'll be fine,” he replies softly. “You know I can sleep anywhere, and I'm not gonna leave you, kiddo.”

A small smile mingled with unconcealed relief flits over Mac's exhausted face even as his eyes are already closing again: “'kay.”

Jack gently squeezes his shoulder, then he sits down again, hand wrapped around Mac's, and continues his vigil.

He is not going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm not a Native Speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> The "Who's your boy?" bit refers to S02e05 "Skull + Electromagnet".  
> The information about St. Olav's Hospital can be found on Wikipedia, though the hospital has its own website (in Norwegian and English).  
> "Drottningsylt" is a delicious marmelade made from blueberries and raspberries.


End file.
